


Kare no doku (his poison)

by Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Carisi POV, Gen, Rape, Rape Case, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stalker, case-fic, nonconsensual drugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark
Summary: Carisi is working his first case as the lead detective, but everything that can go wrong does. First, his main witness won’t corroborate his victim’s story, and then the brother of that witness begins stalking him. But, as bad as it is, things can and do get a lot worse.





	Kare no doku (his poison)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Law and Order: SVU. My apologies to anyone who happens to have the same name as any of the original characters. It is purely accidental.
> 
> If the title doesn't mean what I say it means, please let me know. Thank you.

~ * ~

There is a strange man sitting at his desk.

Sonny pulls up short and stares.

The man is well dressed, in a tailored, dark blue cloth coat, and he has a checkered ivy cap balanced on one knee. His hair, dark blond, almost brown is wavy, curling under his collar. His eyes, staring at where Sonny is supposed to be, are deep pools of black-blue. He is heavier than Sonny, resting a chubby cheek on his meaty fist as he waits.

Sonny had only been gone for fifteen minutes, a quick jog to the corner and back for coffee and a hot dog.

He looks to Amaro or Rollins for an explanation, but neither one of them is paying attention to him.

“Can I help you?” Sonny asks, setting his coffee on the corner nearest Amaro’s elbow. Predictably, Amaro snatches the drink and shifts it to the other side of his desk.

“Yeah, I’m looking for Detective Carisi.” The man’s voice is deep but not overly so. Sonny might be inclined to classify it as pleasant if the man speaking weren’t trying to find him for unknown reasons.

“You got him,” Amaro says helpfully, and Sonny shoots him a glare. He just smiles and turns his attention back to his computer.

“Yes,” Sonny admits, “I’m Detective Carisi. What can I do for you?” He offers his hand to the man and he shakes it quickly, limply. Sonny frowns at him. Everything else about him exudes confidence. Sonny sinks into his chair, reaching past Amaro’s monitor to grab his coffee. He sets it and the hot dog by his right elbow before facing the man on his left.

“I’m David Mitchell. And, well, my sister, she likes to play matchmaker.” The man laughs, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “She gave me your card. Guess she thought you’d be my type.”

“Let me stop you right there,” Sonny says. He pins the man with a heavy look. “I will not get involved with you. Regardless of how I personally feel, your sister is a witness in a case I’m working. It’s inappropriate.”

“But,” Mitchell tries, and Sonny shakes his head.

“I will not repeat myself. If you have nothing to offer toward my case, I would thank you to leave.” He stands up, and Mitchell jumps to his feet, hand out for another limp shake. “Goodbye, Mr. Mitchell.”

Mitchell scratches at his neck again, giving Sonny a sheepish look. “My sister is usually a good judge of character for boyfriends for me,” he says quietly, and Sonny glances around the room to find Amaro and Rollins both totally absorbed in staring at their screens trying not to laugh. “I would really like a chance to get to know you.”

“I’m flattered,” Sonny says, a bit sarcastically, and annoyance flashes in Mitchell’s eyes. Sonny shivers. There’s something dangerous lurking in the depths of those eyes. It doesn’t help that Mitchell has a good four inches and fifty pounds on him. “Really, I am, but I already explained to you why I’m not interested. You need to go now.”

He sits down, flipping open the case file. Mitchell hasn’t moved, and his heavy breathing is starting to get on Sonny’s nerves.

“At least let me try to win you over.” Mitchell smiles, suddenly charming. He leans closer, arm coming to rest on the back of Sonny’s shoulders. He shrugs him off. “Come on, my sister had to have seen  _something_. She wouldn’t send me if there wasn’t a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

At his words, Sonny raises an eyebrow. “I am not a casket of precious metals found at the base of a spectrum of light particles seen through moisture in the atmosphere.” Rollins snorts and claps a hand over her mouth. Sonny ignores her and continues, “Nor will I allow you to persuade me to reconsider my previously indicated stance. Furthermore, I highly doubt your sister has any real insight into prospective mates for you. Take yourself out the door and be gone.”

Mitchell’s face clouds, and that dangerous thing lurking is tangible enough that Sonny pushes back his chair so he has an escape route if Mitchell decides to become violent.

“Fine,” Mitchell finally says, and it looks like he’s struggling to speak calmly. “But, mark my words, I will return. You will not tell me no for too long.”

“No,” Sonny agrees. “I’ll tell it to you for infinity. Don’t waste your time, and don’t waste mine.”

Mitchell leaves, and for a moment the room is absolutely silent. Then, Amaro begins chuckling and Rollins starts laughing.

“Carisi, where’d you get that description for a rainbow from?” she asks, wiping at her eyes.

“It’s what it is,” he replies. “I had to do a report on something I absolutely hated when I was in second grade. I hated rainbows. Still do, but at least I appreciate the science behind them now.”

Amaro chokes suddenly, stopping his insane guffaw-giggle, and he slaps at Sonny’s desk to get his attention. “You have to tell the Sarge about your pushy date!”

“He’s not my pushy date. I got rid of him, didn’t I?”

“What if he comes back?” Rollins asks. “I mean, you heard him, he’s going to ask you out for a long time.”

“No support?” Sonny asks them. “Really? If he doesn’t leave me alone, I’d expect a little help from you two howler monkeys to help discourage his misplaced interest.”

“Howler monkeys?” Amaro says at the same time Rollins says, “Misplaced interest?”

“Stop laughing at me and I’ll come up with a better name for you,” Sonny promises. “And yeah, how is me saying no somehow not taken into account here?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the way you said no?” Rollins giggles a little and spoils her mad-at-you glare. “Carisi, if you want to be taken seriously, don’t insult someone in a way they can misconstrue it.”

“He did say he wouldn’t get involved with Mitchell,” Amaro reminds her. “Okay, Carisi, you got a deal, if Mitchell bugs you again, let us know and we’ll get him to back off.”

“So, if you’re not a ‘casket of precious metals’ at the end of a rainbow, what are you?”

“A detective.” Sonny unwraps his hot dog and takes a bite. Still hot. He chews carefully and swallows. “Now, I want to get back to being productive before the Sarge has our hides. Good idea, yeah?”

“I still think you should tell Olivia about Mitchell,” Amaro says, seriously.

“Noted,” Sonny responds. “Now shush.”

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and at a decent enough hour, Sonny has his reports finished and has written a memo informing Benson of David Mitchell’s inappropriate contact.

As early as Sonny is, Benson’s earlier and her office stands empty, door shut, blinds drawn.

Well, she has one of those file holders on the wall, so his report goes in there. He ends up taping the memo to her closed door, folding it in half so no one can read it, out in the open as it is.

A last look around determines he’s the last of the day shifts leaving today, and it’s not even 7:00 yet.

Nice. He has some time before class tonight. Speaking of class, he still hasn’t done the worksheet. Too excited working his first case as the lead detective. Oh, well. Time enough. He clicks off his lamp, drapes his coat over his shoulders, and steps out into a clear, crisp night.

~ * ~

The next morning, there are three separate bouquets of flowers on Sonny’s desk.

Neither Amaro nor Rollins is in yet, but Tutuola is sitting at his desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose, a thick book cracked open on his lap.

“Hey,” Sonny calls to him, and Tutuola snaps the book shut, setting it on his desk with a loud thump. “Did you see who brought these?”

“Courier,” Tutuola says. “I think there’s a card.”

Sonny searches each bouquet carefully, annoyed to find that each one is arranged into a rainbow with a cluster of yellow roses in the center. Pot of gold, he thinks sourly. In the final bouquet, he finds a card tucked down into the stems.

_My Dear Detective Dominick Carisi Jr. (really, you should tell me your nickname so I can call you something entirely more endearing than that),_

_I have decided that you meant no harm with your words to me yesterday, and so I shall let bygones be bygones._

_I expect you at 7:00 p.m. sharp at_ Moncelli’s _at 33rd and 14th. Dress nice. Wear something that brings out your eyes._

_Until tonight, my love_

_xoxo_

Sonny swears softly and hands the note to Tutuola before he can ask for it.

“What’s this about?” Tutuola demands. “Who’s asking you on a date?”

“Brother of a witness, David Mitchell. Apparently he really doesn’t hear no.”

“You gay?” Tutuola squints at him suspiciously. “I thought you had a girlfriend.”

“Ex,” Sonny corrects automatically. “And I’m not…against dating men. I just tend to prefer women.” He accepts the card again, sticking it back into the vase. “Amaro was right. I’ve gotta tell the Sergeant about this.”

Tutuola holds up a hand. “Hang on. What did you mean when you said he doesn’t hear no?”

“He was here yesterday. He said his sister sent him down to meet me. Apparently she helps him pick his boyfriends.”

“And she chose you?”

Sonny nods. “She’s a witness in the investigation of the rape of Madeline Fauster. She doesn’t have much information, but I’ll do a follow up with her later today. I didn’t get the vibe that she was scouting me.”

“You told him no.”

“I did. Made Amaro and Rollins laugh, but Amaro at least admitted I did acceptably decline his advances.”

 ”Yeah, you should tell Liv. Shoulda told her yesterday.”

“I left a note on her door—she’d already gone home by the time I finished the initial reports.” Sonny glances at her closed door. His memo is still stuck to the door and the blinds are still down. “She’s not in yet?”

Tutuola shakes his head. “Just you, me, and your flowers.”

“Hey, do you think I should let Barba know about Mitchell? You know, just in case it gets that far.”

“I’d let Liv decide that. Could be he just needs a firm no.”

“I  _gave_  him a firm no. He didn’t listen!”

“Gave who a firm no?” Benson asks from behind Sonny. He turns around, relieved to see her puzzled face and small smirk. “What’s with the flowers, Carisi?”

“A stalker gave them to him,” Tutuola supplies. Benson’s face hardens.

“You have a stalker?”

Sonny shrugs. “I might.” He digs the card out and gives it to her. Silently, she reads it.

“Do I need to tell you that you’re not going on this, uh, ‘date’?”

“No. I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Get rid of the flowers and meet me in my office in ten minutes. Carisi, you should have said something sooner.”

“Why is it my fault? I was doing my job.”

“Shut up and help me dispose of these butt-ugly things,” Tutuola says. Muttering angrily, Sonny scoops up a vase in each hand and Tutuola grabs the last one. Apparently, and Sonny’s not sure if it’s a good thing yet, there is a dumpster behind the precinct. Tutuola throws open the lid and chucks his vase in. Sonny follows suit, the smashed glass creating a pleasing cacophony.

“I hate rainbows,” Sonny tells Tutuola when they are back inside, rubbing the early morning chill from their hands.

“So why’d he give you rainbows?”

“It might have something to do with how I told him off yesterday. I might have insulted him.”

“You insulted him? Man, you’re stupid.”

“Shut up, it got him to leave. Hey, don’t tell Amaro or Rollins about the flowers, okay? I won’t hear the end of it.”

“Scout’s honor,” Tutuola promises, three fingers of his left hand pointing up while his right rests over his heart. Sonny takes it to mean that Amaro and Rollins will know by lunch at the latest.

“Thanks anyway,” he says, leaving Tutuola to go back to his book while he enters Benson’s office. She’s at her desk, his note from yesterday on the blotter in front of her.

“David Mitchell,” she says, looking up at him. “Why is that name so familiar?”

“He’s the brother of one of the witnesses in my case. Ann Mitchell.” 

“Ah, yes. You said she didn’t know anything.”

“I said I thought she didn’t know what she knew,” Sonny corrects. “I was going to talk to her later today, but if her brother is seeking contact with me, it might be better to send someone else.”

“Yes, it might.”

She taps her chin thoughtfully before sitting forward and pointing at one of the chairs in front of her desk. “Park it,” she says, not without a bit of amusement in her voice. He sits, perched on the edge in case he wants to make a quick getaway. “How many times has David Mitchell contacted you?”

“Twice. Once in person yesterday and once today with the flowers.”

“Did you give him any sort of hint that you were interested in pursuing a relationship with him?”

“No. In fact, I told him it would be inappropriate and asked him to leave if he couldn’t help my case.”

“What did he say then?”

Sonny scrunches up his face, trying to recall Mitchell’s exact words. “I think it was something to the effect that even though I said no, he would still keep asking me.”

“Did anyone else see him interact with you?”

“Amaro and Rollins were both at their desks.” She waves her hand then, and he stands up. “Look, I’m sorry about not getting the information to you before you left last night, but I thought once he’d left that was the end of it.”

“Go, get to work on your case. I’ll talk to you again after lunch. And, Carisi, if Mitchell contacts you in any way, I want to know immediately.”

“Yes, sir, Sergeant.” Dismissed, Sonny scurries off to his desk. Tutuola raises an eyebrow but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge him. He opens the case file, staring down at the list of names, places, and times. “I need to speak to the victim again,” he says to Tutuola. “Want to come?”

“This is your solo case,” Tutuola reminds him, suddenly preoccupied with his phone. “Solve it yourself unless you get stuck.” He grimaces at the tiny screen before tapping a response carefully. He looks up at Sonny, eyes hooded, saying “But, yeah, I’ll come with. Got nothing better to do right now anyway.”

Sonny beams at him, grabs his coat, and bounds off to collect a set of keys. By the time he gets back, Tutuola is standing at the entrance to the squad room talking to Amaro and Rollins, both of whom eye Sonny oddly.

“Yeah, so Liv might have some words for you, but don’t worry. I’m keeping an eye on him today. Tomorrow it’ll be one of you guys’ turn.”

“Carisi’s a big boy,” Amaro points out, catching Sonny’s eye. “I’m sure he’s more than capable of looking out for himself.”

“Just the same, Liv wants us to be careful. It’s his first stalker,” Tutuola continues. Rollins shrugs and nods in understanding.

“Hey,” Sonny says, amused at the who-me-I’m-not-guilty look Tutuola plasters on his face. “So, ready to go or what?” He jerks his head toward the door, letting Tutuola leave first.

“I think Amaro’s right, and I can look out for myself,” Sonny says, handing the keys to Tutuola. He hasn’t had as much of a desire to drive since the botched stakeout at that Madame’s house. “But, all the same, thanks for coming with. I wasn’t aware the Sarge wanted anyone to follow me.”

“You know Liv,” Tutuola clicks his tongue, unlocking the doors and making a sweeping gesture at the front passenger seat, “she likes to keep her people safe.”

“I guess, yeah. Anyway, thanks again.”

The silence is not uncomfortable by any means, but Sonny isn’t sure he’d call it amicable. At least Tutuola doesn’t appear to hate him as much as either Amaro or Rollins do.

~ * ~

In spite of the mid-morning traffic, they make good time and arrive at Madeline Fauster’s apartment building within half an hour. Sonny checks his notes, handing a piece of paper with some scribbled questions on it to Tutuola.

“As long as we’re here, we might as well ask Ann Mitchell some more questions.”

Tutuola gives the paper back. “It’s still your case. You take the lead.”

Sonny can’t help the grin that splits his face. Now he knows Tutuola doesn’t hate him. He’s sure if any of the others had been with him, his case wouldn’t still be his case.

They climb out of the car, Tutuola stretching like he’s waking up, shaking out his legs and rubbing his hands together.

“Hey, Tutuola, one quick question,” Sonny says. “This may sound dumb, but would you talk to Ms. Mitchell first or would you talk to the victim first? I already spoke with both, but I just need to clarify the timeline, and I think I’d rather have Ms. Fauster’s first, to see if I can compare the two.”

“I think you just answered your own question. And call me Fin. Everyone else does.”

“Okay. Apartment 703-B.”

Sonny presses the button, waiting to be buzzed in. Last time he was here, Madeline made him wait an hour for her boyfriend to get off work. This time, she makes them wait five minutes.

“Elevator’s out of order,” he remarks to Tutuola—Fin when the other detective heads for it. “It’s how he was able to follow her without her being suspicious of him.”

“Did he disable it?”

Sonny checks his notes, certain he’d asked that same question of the laid back security guard stationed behind the caged-in counter. He finds the answer, showing it to Fin. “It’s been out of commission since about a week before the attack. A power short or something. They haven’t been able to get anyone in to look at it. I’ll stop and talk to the guard again before we leave.” He notes his intention and Fin nods in approval.

After the first two flights of stairs, Fin huffs, “So, why are you checking back for a timeline today? Why didn’t you do it yesterday?”

“I did do it yesterday. Everything I did is in the initial report. I submitted a copy to Benson for her to sign off on. I just, most people remember more details after a few hours or days. I have the baseline, I just want to see what’s changed. See if I get any new leads.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” Fin says, and Sonny tries not to show how much that admission hurts. By Fin’s apologetic half-smile, he guesses he was unsuccessful. “Someone tell you that?”

“What, that I’m smarter than I appear or that I’m dumber than a rock? I’ve heard both. A lot.”

“Still stings, doesn’t it?”

“It shouldn’t. It won’t.”

“And I’ve got to tell you about the Brooklyn Bridge I’ve got for sale.”

Sonny smiles. “Only if you’ll buy the George.”

After another three flights, and some weird green gunk splashed across the left side of the stairwell, they stand on the seventh floor. Even Sonny is breathing hard. Fin’s almost doubled over, sawing air like he’s drowning.

“Getting too old for this shit,” he manages to puff out, and Sonny tries not to laugh at him. “Someday you’ll be just like me. See how you like stairs then.” Fin shoots him a particularly nasty stink-eye that sets Sonny into a bit of a giggling fit.

Once they calm down, Sonny heads down the hall toward Madeline Fauster’s apartment. Right next door to it, 703-A, is Ann Mitchell’s apartment. As they pass the elevator, Sonny notes the doors are cracked open. He’ll ask the guard about that too. He doesn’t remember if the doors are open on the first floor.

Apartment 703-B’s door is ajar. So is Apartment 703-A’s. Sonny tenses, hand dropping onto his gun. Fin pulls his out, checking the safety. Signaling for him to take Fauster’s, Fin scampers forward, sliding up to Mitchell’s door. Sonny ducks across the hall and turns, keeping Fauster’s door in his sight at all times until he’s pressed against the crack, peering in.

He can hear voices, two women, chanting, farther in. Carefully, he pushes the door until it opens enough to admit him. He clears the first room quickly, glancing back at Fin to see he’s gone into Mitchell’s apartment.

The kitchen doorway is still covered with a curtain of strings of red and green beads, Christmas gone wrong. The voices are behind the curtain, and Sonny creeps slowly, keeping his gun up with the safety on. Last thing he needs is to accidentally shoot someone.

The beads click gently as he pushes a few strands aside to poke his head into the living room. Madeline Fauster, her boyfriend, James Thorpe, and Ann Mitchell are seated around the coffee table. They appear to be praying, eyes closed, hands joined. Ann is leading the chant, James’s lips moving along to the women’s breathy voices.

Incense smokes on a plate on the table, surrounded by patterned porcelain teacups and opened soda cans. The couch has been pushed back to make room for a large statue of Durga, the goddess representing invincibility in Hinduism. The multi-armed statue makes Sonny’s skin crawl. It doesn’t help that the eyes seem to follow him as he walks around the room, poking his head into the bedroom and bathroom, finding both blissfully empty.

He returns to the curtained doorway, peeking through to see Fin standing in Fauster’s kitchen. He signals for all-clear and receives the same hand sign back.

Sonny holsters his gun and turns back to the occupants of the room. All of whom are now standing, staring at him wide-eyed.

“Why did you have your gun out?” Madeline asks, her naturally trembling voice shaking even more.

Madeline and Ann look alike with their dark hair worn long, matching necklaces around their necks. Madeline favors light pink and Ann green, but their faces are similar enough that even yesterday, Sonny had had trouble telling them apart until they’d been separated by James.

James looks like a typical Hampton kid with polished good looks, blonde hair tapered down to his collar, and inquisitive green eyes. He’s taller than Sonny by an inch, but Sonny knows he can take him in a fair fight, if it comes to that. James is always raring at the bit, ready to go ten rounds with anyone he perceives as wronging his loved ones. In some ways, Madeline’s assault has been as hard on him as on her.

“Your door was open,” Sonny explains. Fin joins them, pushing through the curtain in a cascade of clacking beads. “Actually, both of your doors were open.”

Ann jerks, raising a hand to point at Sonny. “You came back. Why did you come back?” She looks terrified, and Sonny glances at Fin to gauge his reaction. Fin appears unmoved.

“Detective Carisi has some more questions for Madeline,” he says. “That is, if you feel up to answering them?”

Madeline shakes her head, but James taps her arm, leaning close to whisper something in her ear. “It won’t take long?” She turns her frightened gaze onto Sonny, and it freezes him.

“Uh, no. No, just wanted to clarify a couple of things.” He points at the couch, and she moves to it, settling stiffly on one side while he crouches down at the other, a space of four feet between them. He did this yesterday too, to make himself seem less imposing. James sits by her feet, his head tipped back to rest on her knee. Absently, she reaches down to stroke his hair.

Fin, for his part, guides Ann out into the kitchen. Sonny assumes they’ll go back to her apartment. He focuses his attention on Madeline.

“Okay,” he says, gently, soothingly, he hopes. “I won’t make you go through your statement again, but I did want to ask you some things.”

At Madeline’s nod, he clears his throat. “You came back to your building at 9:30 that night?”

“Yes.” Her voice is soft and still a little rough from screaming during her attack. Sonny hasn’t told anyone, but that’s probably what had saved her life. “I got off work at 8:45, and it takes half an hour to drive back here. I stopped for a smoothie at my favorite restaurant, so that’s why I was in the stairs at 9:30.”

“You said your attacker was wearing soft-soled shoes,” he stretches a bit, leaning forward and then back trying to keep his legs from cramping. She hadn’t let him sit last time either. “Do you remember anything else about them, type, color?”

“No, sorry.”

“I am very sorry to ask this, but for how long did you scream?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” James jerks away from Madeline’s grip and snarls in Sonny’s face. Sonny doesn’t blink.

“He just wants to know the timeline for what happened. It helps catch the man who did this.”

“Doesn’t sound like it helps,” James mutters, sitting back. Immediately, Madeline twines her fingers in his hair again.

“I think I screamed for fifteen minutes,” she whispers. James winces as she nervously tugs on a curl. “He kept laughing at me the whole time. Taunting me.”

Sonny nods. “You’ve told me that,” he reminds her gently. “You also said you thought he sounded familiar.”

She shakes her head frantically. “I don’t remember who it was. I should though.”

Madeline folds down, and James sets his hand on her head. Sonny observes them quietly for a moment. “When did you finally arrive at your apartment?”

“I think, maybe a few minutes after I stopped screaming. He just ran away. Martha, from second sent her son up to check on me. He called an ambulance. They got there—”

“At 10:15,” James spits out, bitterly. “It took them half an hour to come for her.”

“I understand your frustration,” Sonny says softly. “There was a pileup that night. It shouldn’t have happened, but Madeline was deemed less at risk than the accident.”

Madeline makes a small noise of pain, and James moves to sit next to her. He wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m really sorry,” Sonny apologizes, and James shoots him an annoyed glare.

“You already said that.”

“Do you think I’m lying about my attack?” Madeline asks suddenly, locking her eyes onto Sonny’s. “Tell me honestly.”

“I believe you,” he says. “I believe that you were followed and assaulted.” He stands up, looks around the apartment again. The Durga statue’s eyes follow him again. “But, I need to ask you one more thing: what happened to your smoothie?”

“What?” James barks out a laugh. “Her  _smoothie_? What’s that got to do with anything?”

Sonny shrugs, returning Madeline’s puzzled stare and James’s angry one. “Earlier, you said that you were still holding your smoothie cup when you were attacked. What happened to it? Did you drop it?”

“I must have,” Madeline murmurs. “I don’t recall what happened to it. He hit me from behind, it must have been knocked from my hand.”

“Was it green?”

“Yes, banana and kale.”

Sonny thinks back to the green gunk in the stairwell, tracking the spill down the few steps it stained. He’s certain there had been a few footprints in it when he and Fin had seen it. Hopefully, the evidence is still viable. “Thank you very much for your time,” he says to Madeline, reaching out to shake James’s hand in a gesture of goodwill. “Is is all right if I call you later if I have more questions?”

“I guess so,” Madeline says. She smiles brightly, the first real smile Sonny has seen, and he’d spent a good four hours with her yesterday. James catches a glimpse of the smile and turns to Sonny a look of amazement on his face.

“She hasn’t smiled in a week,” he said, the amazement bleeding into his voice, pitching it high and shaky. Madeline giggles.

“Detective Carisi just had a breakthrough,” she explains.

“Sort of, yes, thank you again. Just remember, I’m always available if you recall anything else or just want to talk.” He grins, bows, and rattles through the curtain, looking for Fin. He finds him leaning against Ann’s closed door.

“Hey, Fin, I need you to call CSU, have them take casts of all the footprints in the green stuff on the stairs. Tell them to take samples, a work up, the whole deal. Madeline confirmed it was her smoothie that made that puddle.”

“You didn’t know this yesterday?”

Sonny shakes his head. “Bernie, the guard downstairs, told me they clean the stairs every other day. Madeline was attacked almost a week ago.”

“So that stain should’ve been cleaned by now,” Fin infers, and Sonny nods.

“We were near it too, so we’ll have to be tested too, to rule us out.” Fin shoots him a look of horror. “I don’t know how many people have gone through the stairs since the attack, so we should get as many of the residents’ and their frequent visitors’ tested too.”

“Overtime,” Fin sighs. “For you. I’m too old for this shit, remember?”

Sonny laughs. “Look,” he sobers quickly. “I still want to talk to Ann Mitchell, see if her timeline matches any better with Madeline’s than it did yesterday.”

“How far off were they?”

“Ann claimed she didn’t hear Madeline screaming until almost at 9:45. Madeline said she was screaming almost the whole time she was being attacked.”

“Who do you believe?” Fin has an intrigued look on his face, and Sonny really doesn’t want to disappoint him.

“I believe more of Madeline’s timeline than I do Ann’s, but something bothers me about Madeline. She said she screamed for fifteen minutes. I want to do some tests, see if the point at which she was attacked on the stairs can be heard from here and for how long she can scream. Her throat is damaged, so she did scream at some length, but she’s not trained in any way to elongate her breaths, so it wasn’t one continuous sound. Overall, though, that’s the only thing really bugging me about her story.”

“And Ann’s?”

“Three times when I was talking to her she insisted she didn’t know something only to mention it later. First, she said she didn’t know what time she heard Madeline scream, then she knew for certain it was at 9:45. She doesn’t know Madeline’s schedule, but they’re best friends and they share everything, including the fact that Madeline works until 8:30 every day except weekends. Then, and this is the kicker, Ann claims that Madeline lies to get attention all the time and that’s why they’re not friends. Except.”

“They’re best friends.”

“Yep. Ann’s been lying to me, and I think she knows that I know. So, what I want to find out is, was she involved in the assault at all? And if she was, how involved?”

“Have at her,” Fin says, knocking on Ann’s door.

“Just a moment,” she calls from inside. Sonny keeps an eye on his watch, and one-minute-thirty-seconds later, Ann opens the door. “Detective Carisi, have you come to interrogate me?”

“No,” he says pleasantly, smiling at her pinched mouth and crinkled forehead. “I’ve come to see if you remembered anything else about Madeline Fauster’s assault.”

“Yes, of course. Please come in.” She steps back enough so he can brush past her. Fin follows more slowly, staring at the Hindu art covering the walls of the kitchen.

Ann notices his attention, and sweeps an arm out. “My brother spent a few years studying abroad. He fell in love with the culture of Hinduism and acquired many pieces of art he thought I would appreciate.” She turns her steely gaze onto Sonny, “How is my brother?”

“Busy,” Sonny responds distractedly. Something is different from yesterday and he’s trying to remember what it is.

Ann scoffs at his answer, grabbing a silver teakettle and setting it in the sink with a metallic clank. She runs the faucet a bit before letting the kettle fill.

Sonny pulls out his notes and studies them quickly. Ah, there it is. A bonsai tree is missing.

“What happened to the tree?” he asks. Ann stiffens noticeably.

“It fell,” she says quietly, turning off the sink. “I wasn’t careful enough and I bumped the table.”

“And they’re so fragile,” Sonny offers. She nods, moving to set the kettle on a burner that she turns all the way up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Please, sit. The water will only take a moment.” She collects a set of tiny teacups, each imprinted with a different Japanese character, from a cupboard. She puts three leaves into each cup, setting one before each of them. Then, she fingers the cup she set for herself, tracing the character. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Actually, I wanted to know if you’ve ever heard any noise from the stairwell. You are pretty close to it, yes?”

She laughs without humor. “There is a door between here and there. I am sorry Madeline was hurt, but I didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t say you did,” he says, studying the way she blushes and ducks her head. “Tell me, Ann. Did you hear Madeline’s assault?”

She whispers, almost too soft to hear, “Yes.”

“Do you know who attacked her?”

Again, “Yes.”

Sonny glances at Fin who looks shocked. The teakettle begins whistling and Ann jumps to tend to it.

“Ann,” Sonny says. His stomach clenches uncomfortably. “Ann, who attacked Madeline?”

“I can’t tell you. He’ll kill me.”

“It’s not your brother, is it?” Fin shoots him a look that could either mean shut-up-your-foot-in-your-mouth-will-get-us-killed or shut-up-even-though-I-think-you’re-right.

Sonny won’t shut up, though. He knows he’s on the right path. Ann appears terrified at his suggestion, so he leans closer, taking the teakettle from her shaking hands, pouring a generous amount into her small cup. The leaves float to the top, staining the hot liquid golden-brown.

“What does he do to you?” he asks softly, gently, handing off the teakettle to Fin, who sets it in the sink without adding water to their cups. “He threw away your Bonsai tree, didn’t he?”

He pulls out a chair for her, and Ann sinks into it with a quiet moan. She drops her head to the table on top of her folded arms. Her shoulders start shaking.

Sonny thinks he hears a sob.

“Did he come back here yesterday after coming to see me?”

Ann’s head shoots off the table and she stares at him with watery eyes. “What did you say to him? He was so angry!”

Sonny opens his mouth to speak but Fin places a hand on his arm and wordlessly, he shuts it. “Why did you try to set them up together?”

“My brother is difficult, but I think maybe you saw that?”

“No,” Sonny says, shaking his head, thinking back to Mitchell sitting at his desk. “There was something dangerous in his eyes. Does he hurt you often?”

Sonny’s phone rings, and Ann jerks, wailing at the sound of it. Sonny grabs at his pocket, pulling it out. It’s Benson calling him. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.” He steps outside the apartment, keeping the door open enough to see Fin offer a comforting pat to Ann’s back.

“Sarge,” he answers, maybe a little clipped. His nerves are about shot too, and he’s nowhere near done here.

“Where are you, Carisi?”

“Still at Ann Mitchell’s apartment. Look, there’s been a development in the case. Ann’s brother David is now a suspect. I think Ann and Madeline might be in danger.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Mitchell attacked his sister after I rejected him yesterday.”

“Is she okay?”

“No. She’s shaken up and when you just called me, she started crying. Fin’s with her right now. I think it’s time you took over again.”

He can almost hear the disappointment in Benson’s voice when she says, “If that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want, and what I want isn’t as important as what’s right for these women. Please, Sarge.”

She sighs heavily. “Okay, Carisi, I’ll take over. Fin called in a request for CSU. Wanna tell me why?”

“Madeline spilled a smoothie in the stairwell the night of her attack. I think it may have transferred to her attacker. Of course, since it was a week ago, there might be nothing to gain from it.”

“But leave no evidence unexplored,” she says, her voice oddly pitched. “Good idea, Carisi.”

Oh, is that pride?

He smiles to himself. “I need to get back to Ann. We’ll check in with you before we do anything else. We’ll receive CSU, too.”

She clucks her tongue, and he suppresses a smile at her acknowledgement. “I haven’t forgotten that you wanted to talk to me at lunch. It might have to wait though.”

“Just go. And, Carisi.”

“Yes, Sarge?”

“Be careful.”

“Always, Sarge. Anyway, I’ve got Fin.”

She laughs and hangs up.

Sonny sighs, letting his head fall back to bang against the wall lightly. This is going to be a cluster if there ever was one. First opportunity, he’ll call Barba, get his unofficial opinion on how best to proceed.

Right now, he’s got another victim.

It’s not even 11:00.

He sighs again and heads back into Ann’s apartment

~ * ~

Fin does the heavy lifting, convincing Ann that she should get checked out at a hospital. Sonny wants to promise that they’ll keep her brother from finding her, but he doesn’t know if they can. It’s been drummed into him that he shouldn’t offer things he can’t 100 percent guarantee.

“Hey, Fin,” he says, when Ann is safely tucked away in a squad car, both officers told to guard her with their lives should it come to that. “I gotta step back from this case.” At Fin’s curious look, he shrugs, “What if David Mitchell claims I instigated this investigation into him as revenge for him asking me out? Barba’d have a heart attack.”

“I’ll call Liv,” Fin says in understanding. CSU is already on the stairs, a small group of men and women with booties taped over their shoes, stooped over, cameras flashing, swabs and scrapes being collected.

Fin automatically heads to the elevator and Sonny calls out, “It’s still broken, remember?” Fin shoots him a death-glare and heads to the stairwell.

“Come on, kid,” he says, irritably, jerking his head toward the offending stairs.

“Just a minute,” Sonny says. He kneels next to the elevator doors, checking out the crack he’d noted earlier. Just inside, he sees some of the green gunk from the smoothie. “Hey, Fin, c’mere.”

When Fin joins him, he points at the smears. “What’s that look like?”

“Madeline’s spilled drink,” Fin breathes. “Whoever raped her used the elevator. Thought you said it was out of order?”

“I did.” Sonny sits back on his heels, wheels turning. “Bernie, the guard. He’s the one who told me. It’s only been a day since I was last here. I didn’t have time to check it out more thoroughly, but it’s possible…” he trails off, looking up at Fin. “What if he lied? He’d have an override key.”

“Power short?”

“That’s what he’d said.”

Fin starts pushing at one of the doors, and Sonny hurries to help him. Between the two of them, they manage to pry it open enough for Sonny to slide in. The lights are off, but there is a small lamp set in a corner. He pulls on a glove before he turns it on, stepping over the dried smoothie. Aside from the two footprints at the entrance, the elevator is clean.

“Bet we get a good print on this button,” Sonny says, leaning close and examining the “L” button.

“Get outta there.”

“Fine, coming.” He turns off the lamp, setting it back in its corner and shimmying out into the hallway. “You’re calling the Sarge?”

Fin nods, phone already pressed to his ear. “Liv,” he says, undercurrent of anger floating in his tone. Sonny shifts from foot to foot. He can’t decide if he’s nervous or excited.

A little of both, if he really thinks about it.

It’s his break. It’s been his case from the get-go, and if Bernie really did it, then he’s solved it by himself.

“Good work, Carisi,” Fin says, slapping a hand onto his shoulder. Sonny looks at it, disappointment welling up. He struggles to bury it, following Fin closely as he heads to the stairs, phone still stuck to his ear. There’s no reason to be upset, he tells himself.

“We’re still going to charge David Mitchell with assault,” Fin says out of the corner of his mouth, and Sonny nods. Of course, he can still be a suspect in Madeline’s case, but what they’ve found so far really does point to Bernie.

CSU seems done by the time they make it down to fifth, the techs packing away their kits.

“Anything else before we go?” the head technician, a stout older lady with dyed red hair, asks.

“Yeah,” Sonny says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the seventh floor. “Detective Tutuola and I found more of the dried smoothie in the elevator on the victim’s floor, along with what appears to be a pristine print on the lobby button, and a small lamp.”

“Didn’t touch anything, did we?” She gives him a stink-eye to rival Fin’s, and he holds up his still gloved hand.

“Not without this.”

She nods approvingly. “You heard the detective,” she calls to her crew, and they start heading to seventh. She hangs back, watching them go before turning to Sonny, saying, “We’ll let you know our findings.”

“Thank you,” he tells her, and she nods again, following her crew up the stairs. Fin grabs at Sonny’s arm, phone _still_ pressed to his ear. He keeps making affirmative noises even as he steers Sonny down the stairs, pushing to go faster.

“Okay. Yeah, I got him. We’re heading to first. Yeah, I’ll make sure there’s an officer waiting to make the arrest. No, Carisi won’t touch him.”

Fin shakes Sonny, and obediently he pulls out his phone, punching in the number for dispatch. He requests an officer and hangs up before Fin finally hangs up his phone.

“Benson thinks it’s a good idea that you not be present for the arrest in case Bernie tries to use the assault case against David Mitchell to cry foul.”

“Noted,” Sonny says. “I’ll just go sit in the car, then?” Fin hands him the keys.

“Try not to touch anything,” he warns with a hint of humor. Sonny favors him with a small smile.

Bernie waves at them when they make it down to first, and Sonny cringes. Fin shoots him a look to behave, saying to Bernie, “Sorry. He’s got a touch of something. Just gonna go wait out in the car.”

Bernie looks sympathetically at Sonny as he rushes out of the building. Behind him, he hears Fin ask, “So, what can you tell me about the broken elevator?”

He sits on the trunk of the car, legs folded, tucked under each other, arms resting on his knees. He can see the entrance of the building from this vantage point, watching as two units respond to the call out.

It’s not his case anymore, even if he broke it wide open. And, he’s not bitter about it. He has other things on his mind, phone in hand, Barba’s number punched in and waiting for him to press send. His thumb hovers over the button.

He shakes his head. Clears the number. Punches in Madeline Fauster’s. Erases it.

She deserves to know, he thinks, but he should wait for confirmation that Bernie Hawkins, the guard of her building, is really her rapist. He pushes in Barba’s number again. Waits. Thinks some more. Erases it again.

Ann had seemed fairly sure that it was her brother, but was that Sonny’s inference, or was that _actually_ what she had thought?

He doesn’t know what to do right now, but he’s positive him sitting out on the car isn’t helping anyone. Really, Bernie is going to use the fact that David Mitchell was trying to secure a date with him to eff up their case?

Who’s going to tell him? Mitchell?

“Thought I told you not to touch anything?” Fin says, interrupting his thoughts.

Sonny grins at him, more from relief of not having to decide what to do right now than the reappearance of Fin. “You realize you woulda told me that even if I’d been sitting in the passenger seat?” he counters.

Fin shrugs, accepting the keys Sonny hands him. “Since you’re bursting with excitement and all,” he says, “I’ll tell you: we got him. He still had traces of the smoothie in his shoes. He almost confessed when the officers arrested him. Apparently, when we called in those officers to escort Ann, he thought we’d figured him out.”

Sonny sinks into his seat with a sigh. “Good thing we got him then,” he says softly. “Hey, who’s gonna tell Madeline?”

“Don’t worry about that right now.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I know.” Fin offers him an almost fond look, reaching out to punch his shoulder as he starts the car. “You still have to talk to Benson. Update her then and let her decide what the timetable’s gonna be. You’re officially off both cases though.”

“I know. But, it just feels like maybe I should be doing _something_ , even if it’s getting everyone coffee. If I’m off the case, does it affect my detective’s exam?”

“You got law school to fall back on.”

Which is not an answer, but if it’s all he gets, he’ll take it.

“Anyway, good job with what you did do. We probably couldn’t have done it without you. Benson’ll put in a good word for you when the time comes.”

“Thanks.” He doesn’t say anything else, letting the silence lapse between them. Again, it’s not uncomfortable, but Sonny’s not so sure it’s not indicative of Fin’s overall feelings for him. It’s telling, Sonny thinks, that he wants their acceptance, the one that comes from first name basis, but they seem to be unintentionally withholding it.

He could solve a dozen cases and they’d probably still call him Carisi and give him an odd pat or two on the back. That is, if he doesn’t get kicked off every case due to some perceived personal involvement.

He closes his eyes, exhausted beyond belief even though he’s only been at work officially for a little over five hours. Fin lets him rest.

~ * ~

Traffic snarls them, and it’s almost 1:00 when Sonny and Fin finally get back to the precinct. Sonny finds a sandwich from one of the nearby delis on his desk with a note taped to it. It’s something, he supposes, especially since the note reads ‘For Dominick’ instead of ‘For Carisi’ or, God forbid, “For New Guy.” Amaro’s handwriting, he thinks, risking a peek at one of Amaro’s open folders to match the letters.

Amaro and Rollins are both sitting at Rollins’s desk, heads together, murmuring quietly.

“So,” Fin says, mouth full, and Sonny sees he’s got a sandwich too. “Anything exciting happen while we were gone?”

Amaro straightens but keeps a hand on the back of Rollins’s chair. “We’ve got enough evidence to charge Bernie Hawkins with the rape of Madeline Fauster. Barba’s coming in to see if we need to go to trial.”

Meaning a plea deal, Sonny thinks. Probably best for Madeline. Shouldn’t put her through the trauma of a trial.

Rollins snaps her fingers, pointing at Sonny, who is still holding the sandwich, not sure if he really should eat it. Despite a lacking breakfast, he doesn’t find himself to be hungry right now. “Benson wants to see you right away.” That decides it. He sets the sandwich down and heads to Benson’s office.

She’s in the corner, on the phone. From the sound of it, she’s talking to her sitter. She points at the chairs in front of her desk, and Sonny sits. He waits patiently while she begins cooing, hopefully at Noah and not the sitter.

A few minutes later, she joins him, surprising him when she sits next to him instead of behind her desk.

“That was good work today,” she says, reaching out to pat his knee. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but I need you to sign off on everything. You can turn your notes in to Fin. Amaro and Rollins will take over any loose ends that need tying up.”

He nods in understanding, although he really doesn’t get why he’s being kicked off this case. “Can he really use the Mitchell case against the D.A.?”

“It’s not something we want to find out. Carisi, it goes in your favor that you asked to be taken off as soon as you realized you could be questioned on your involvement.”

“But I didn’t ask to be off _this_ case,” he tries, spreading his hands helplessly before clasping them in his lap to still any further movement. “I know I shouldn’t be on the Mitchell case due to Mitchell’s advances toward me. I only asked you to take over lead on the Fauster case because I thought David Mitchell might use it against us. He’s not a suspect in Madeline’s rape anymore.”

“Either way, you’re off the case. Both cases.”

She touches his knee again and he jerks away from her. “Are there any forms I need to sign to make it square?” he asks stiffly. He wants to ask her about his exam, but he doesn’t think he’ll get any more of an answer than Fin already gave.

“Everything’s already on your desk,” she says, a hint of sympathy bleeding through her careful tone.

“If that’s all?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Officer Podolski reported that Ann Mitchell is being uncooperative in helping to track down her brother. We have no idea where he is, and we really need to find him.”

She looks hopeful, gazing at him with interest.

Sonny frowns at her. He doesn’t know what she wants. How is he supposed to know where David Mitchell is? He already told the man to eff off.

Then, he thinks of the flowers, of the note. He knows where Mitchell _will_ be.

“I thought I wasn’t going on the date,” he says. She at least pretends to look contrite.

“Well, it’s not a date,” she reasons. “It’s a sting.”

“It’s a date, and you know it. If you call it a sting, he’ll call it entrapment.”

She inclines her head, and he sighs heavily, scrubbing at his eyes. Yep, cluster, here we come.

“Look, Carisi, we’ll have eyes in the restaurant and a surveillance van outside,” Benson says. “You’ll be safe.”

“Relatively speaking,” he says, and she glares at him. “Fine, I’ll be safe.”

She smiles then, pointing at her door. “Go find something nice to wear.”

“Yes, sir.” He salutes her, leaving her to glower at his retreating back.

The forms for him to sign relinquishing all control over the investigation of the cases are on the desk, under the sandwich, which has a new note saying, “Don’t eat me!” in Rollins’s handwriting.

Fine by Sonny. He tosses it in the wastebasket he shares with Amaro, noting that half of Fin’s sandwich is in there too.

A few signatures later and he walks the forms to Fin’s desk. Fin accepts them with a sad look and no words.

Rollins isn’t at her desk, but her computer is still running. Sonny can’t help himself as he peeks at it, recoiling sharply when he catches sight of a scan of the note included with the flowers.

“ _Moncelli’s_ ,” Amaro says, whistling. “That’s a hell of a place for a first date.”

“Nick,” Sonny says tightly. “Don’t.”

Amaro glances down, bashful. “Sorry.”

Rollins comes stomping into the room, heading right for Sonny’s desk. “Carisi!” she yells. Dirt is smudged over one cheek and her blouse is torn right over her left hip. Her pants are filthy. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he says soothingly, using his chair as a shield, blocking her hands as she grabs for him. “What did I do this time?”

She stops moving, gesturing down at her ruined outfit. “Benson had me dumpster diving. Believe it or not, this is _after_ I cleaned up.”

“Fin helped me throw them away,” Sonny says, ignoring Fin’s outraged, “Hey!”

Rollins bats at the chair, latching onto an arm and wrenching it away from Sonny. She growls menacingly as she advances on him. He backs away, hands held up to protect his face in case she decides to pop him one.

“Also,” he points out, voice rising in pitch the closer she gets to him, “the Sarge is the one who told me to get rid of them.”

“I hate you,” she repeats, abruptly turning on her heel and stalking toward the locker room.

He sinks into his chair, running a hand through his hair. “This is really turning into a cluster,” he mumbles to himself. He glances up to see Amaro and Fin both staring at him.

“Do you even own a suit?” Fin asks, suddenly, and Sonny shakes his head.

“Not a nice one.”

Amaro sighs, standing up with an exaggerated grimace. “Come on, Carisi. I got something you can borrow.”

“Oh, no,” Sonny says, wagging a finger at him. “I am not going anywhere near the locker room until Rollins is no longer out to get me.”

Amaro smiles.

“Fine. I’ll get it. Fin, make sure he doesn’t run away.”

“I can’t,” Fin replies. “I gotta secure a wire for tonight.”

“What, you don’t trust me?” Sonny asks, grinning at Amaro.

“Not in the slightest.”

Sonny sobers, staring at Amaro, wondering if his face reveals just how that hurt. Amaro shrugs, heading into the locker room without looking back.

“Brooklyn Bridge,” Fin says, and Sonny snaps his gaze onto him.

“Heard it before,” he says, and wow, yeah, he’s not hiding it very well. He clears his throat. “I’ll draw up the paperwork on the George.”

At least Fin laughs.

“Thanks,” Sonny says softly.

“We’re here for you, kid,” Fin replies. “Amanda doesn’t really blame you for ruining her outfit.”

“But Amaro doesn’t really trust me?” Sonny sighs. “I can deal with Rollins. She’ll probably hit me or something and get it out of her system. If Amaro doesn’t feel like he can trust me, he and I won’t work well in the field.”

Fin doesn’t say anything, and when Sonny looks up, he’s gone.

He puts his head down on his desk. He’s still tired from this morning, he hasn’t eaten much at all today, and his head aches, temples pounding with pain.

A hand latches onto Sonny’s arm, and he jumps about a foot, turning in his chair, hands held defensively again. He expects Rollins and gets Barba.

Barba tilts his head and fixes him with an inquisitive look.

“Hey, Counselor,” Sonny says, trying to smile. He fails miserably, and Barba narrows his eyes. “Here for Bernie Hawkins?”

“No,” Barba says slowly, shaking his head with the same molasses speed. “Your sergeant told me to prep you. Any idea why?”

Sonny shrugs.

Barba rephrases with, “Do I want to know why Benson called me here?”

“Probably not.” Sonny smiles, more genuinely this time.

“Why then?”

“Because of this,” Rollins says, throwing something at Barba. He catches it, squinting at it. It’s David Mitchell’s note, enclosed in a clear plastic evidence bag. Barba’s face darkens as he reads it.

Rollins leans over Sonny’s shoulder, her wet hair dripping on him as she grabs a pen from his holder.

She uses the pen to pin a hastily gathered ponytail, perching on his desk. He notices she has a toiletry bag with her. From the bag, she pulls out a brush.

Barba clears his throat, shaking the note at Sonny.

“What is this?” he demands, voice shaking with repressed anger. He glares at Sonny when he doesn’t answer.

“It’s an invitation,” Rollins says for him, using one hand to keep Sonny’s head facing forward while she uses the brush on his hair.

“Hey,” he protests weakly. “It took me forever to get it to look like that.”

“And it looks like crap,” she says, the brush moving faster, harder. Her tongue pokes out of the corner of her mouth as she works, her fingers squeezing his temples. It does not help his headache.

Barba sets the note down carefully by Rollins’s hip. He half-turns toward Benson’s office before spinning back around just as quickly to slam a hand onto Sonny’s shoulder. They both recoil at the contact.

“What exactly is this note proposing?”

“David Mitchell wants a relationship with Carisi,” Rollins supplies. She sets the brush aside to dig through the bag again, coming up with a small spray bottle. It’s water, and she uses it to dampen his hair. Then, she starts brushing with renewed vigor.

“With you?” Barba blinks, and Sonny’s not sure if it’s an insult.

“It’s not mutual,” he says, turning one hand palm up, a gesture of don’t-know-why. “Anyway, he beat up his sister when I told him no yesterday.”

“So, Benson called me here to let me know, what, that you’re going on this date?”

Sonny spreads his hands, another what-can-you-do gesture. “You said she called you here to prep me. Why do I need prep? I’m just supposed to show up so we can arrest him.”

“Actually,” Amaro says, and Sonny wonders what took him so long. He’s got a garment bag slung over one shoulder. “We need you to get him to confess to assaulting Ann. She refuses to make a statement against him.”

“Currently, we can’t find him. Carisi agreed to be the bait,” Rollins says, laying the brush down again and holding up a small mirror so Sonny can examine the change to his hair. It’s been softened, the gel nearly gone, hanging across his forehead and curling around his ears. It makes him look younger than he is. He doesn’t like it.

Barba’s glare is acid, passing over each of them in turn and lingering on Sonny. He ducks his head as Barba says, “You do realize that this endangers the whole case, right?”

“Yes, believe it or not, we had that discussion. I formally resigned myself from the case. Which means, Counselor, I’m going on a date. One which I’d rather not have to go on.”

“And what of Madeline Fauster’s rape? Are you still involved in that case being as Ann Mitchell is now involved in another case from which you’ve excused yourself?”

“Yeah. The paperwork’s on Detective Tutuola’s desk.”

“We will have to see if it was soon enough,” Barba acquiesces. “Although, apparently everything you touch becomes FUBAR.”

“Carisi did his job. This mess isn’t his,” Amaro says, and Sonny stares at him in astonishment. He’s not expecting the defense he’s getting from his coworkers. He’d have put money on them leaving him to Barba’s mercy before they would side with him, except for maybe Fin.

“But he’s not helping it.” Barba stomps off, finally heading toward Benson’s office.

“Okay, let’s go,” Amaro says, the sudden change from reluctant acceptance to ice cold dousing Sonny in dread. “We have to see if this fits you at all.”

He drags Sonny to the locker room, tossing the garment bag at him when he stops in front of the mirrors.

“Thank you, for earlier,” Sonny says, and Amaro waves a hand dismissively. Sonny takes the hint and ducks into a stall, sliding the deadbolt.

He changes quickly, twisting around in a farce of a dance as he tries and fails to not smack body parts against the partitions.

When he emerges, Amaro gives off a low whistle. “It’ll do,” is all he says though.

The suit is charcoal gray, flecked with darker gray dots. Sonny’s white shirt fits in nicely with it. His maroon tie doesn’t match and Rollins take it away when she redoes his hair, wetting it again and brushing it into some semblance of order.

She hits him when he says the gel woulda made it stick.

Fin reappears when she’s done. He and Amaro strip him to the waist, tape a wire to his chest, and redress him.

“Entrapment,” he says, to anyone who will listen, which apparently is only Barba.

“He’s right. You can’t have a wire on him because he’s not part of your sting. Find another way to get your audio evidence but leave Carisi out of it.”

 Fin grumbles but takes the wire away. Sonny rubs at the sticky substance left from the tape. The others drift back to their desks, leaving Barba looming over Sonny.

Barba sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Much as I hate to do this,” he says, and Sonny assumes he means helping him, “here.” He takes off his tie, which is blue checks and gray dots, and starts looping it around Sonny’s neck.

“Counselor?”

“The note,” Barba says, one side of his mouth quirking into a smile. “It said to wear something to bring out your eyes. See?” He digs through his pockets, coming up with a small compact mirror that he clicks open to show Sonny the difference the tie makes.

“Why do you have a mirror in your jacket?” Sonny asks.

Barba rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I get something in my eye and it’s more convenient to flip this out than to search for a room with an adequate mirror. Any other stupid questions?”

“What do I talk about over dinner?”

“Anything you want except your work. That includes both cases. If you blow this—”

“Don’t bother coming back, yeah I know. I won’t blow it.”

Barba just shakes his head, pats Sonny’s shoulder, and walks away.

It feels as if he’s condemned him. Like he’s a man going to his death and no one wants to put a stop to the execution.

Sonny puts his head on his desk. His headache is getting worse again.

~ * ~

7:00 comes too soon.

Sonny smooths his hands down the front of Amaro’s borrowed blazer. He’s nervous beyond reason.

He can see the precinct’s van parked a block and a half up the street from _Moncelli’s_ , so he guesses they got their bugs into place.

Inside the restaurant, despite being dressed fairly nicely, Sonny feels out of place. He ducks behind a large potted plant so he can better survey the patronage. Slinky dresses. Almost tuxes.

And sitting on a dais, surrounded by an oak railing that partitions it off from the rest of the seating area, is David Mitchell. A woman, blue shimmery dress, dark skin, leans close to him, laughing in his ear.

Mitchell pats her arm, making a sweeping motion with his hand. The woman straightens, glances around the room, and narrows her eyes at Sonny.

She points him out to Mitchell, and Mitchell grins. He waves at Sonny, and Sonny waves back. Swallowing hard, he forces his feet to carry him up the steps to Mitchell’s table.

The woman excuses herself quickly, stepping away as Mitchell pulls out a chair for Sonny. It’s right by his elbow.

Sonny feels crowded, but sinks into it the same. Topics, he thinks, fidgeting with the bottom of the blazer. He remembers belatedly to unbutton it.

At Mitchell’s approving glance, Sonny chokes. He doesn’t want to do this. Barba’s right. This is endangering their cases.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs when Mitchell tries to kiss his cheek and he pulls back. “I’m not feeling well. Could we perhaps do this another time?”

“Nonsense,” Mitchell says, pouring a healthy portion of wine into a long-stemmed glass and offering it to him. “You’ll feel better after a bit. It’s just nerves, after all.”

Sonny shakes his head. “It’s not, though. I haven’t been feeling well all day. I haven’t been able to eat.” He pushes the wine back to Mitchell.

“Drink,” Mitchell says, “I insist.”

“Can I at least eat something first?”

Mitchell reaches out, grabs Sonny’s chin in a bruising grip. “Drink.”

He lets go quickly, patting his cheek gently. More softly, he says, “Drink, please.”

Sonny stares down into the glass. Manages a small sip. Chokes on the cloying sweetness of it. “Ugh,” he says quietly, setting the glass back down. He turns to Mitchell, noting the excitement sparking deep in his eyes. “I spoke with Ann.”

Mitchell glares, reaching out to push at Sonny’s shoulder. “My sister has nothing to do with this. Leave her out of it.”

“Actually,” Sonny reminds him, “your sister was the one who decided you should see me. What I don’t understand is, why? Nothing about me states my preferences. How did your sister see enough in the five minutes we spoke to recommend you visit me?”

“Leave Ann out of this,” Mitchell repeats angrily.

“Or what?” Sonny pushes back. He fixes his gaze on Mitchell’s.

He sees the hand coming, and dodges quickly, Mitchell’s slap skimming the air in front of his nose. “If you insist on pulling that shit with me, I can assure you, you’ll be in cuffs faster than you can snap your fingers.” He tries to demonstrate what he means by snapping his own fingers but somewhere in between avoiding the slap and telling him off, he’s gotten clumsy.

“The wine,” Sonny realizes, grabbing for the glass, which Mitchell deftly lifts from his reach. “What did you do to me?”

Mitchell smiles sweetly, tracing the curve of Sonny’s cheek with his finger. In pulling away from him, Sonny overbalances. The room tilts and he would have fallen completely if the woman in the blue dress hadn’t mysteriously reappeared and grabbed his shoulders.

“Sweet Dominick,” Mitchell says, taking a long swallow from his own, untainted glass of wine. “Sweet, sweet prince.”

The woman brushes her hand over Sonny’s arm and a sharp prick startles him. He has time to look up at Mitchell, to watch as the smiling man melts into black oblivion. He’s so screwed. _Barba is going to kill me_ is his last coherent thought.

~ * ~

The room slams back into sight, his eyes popping open with a suddenness that makes his head ache dully. Sonny stares at the wall off to his left, while he hears, distantly, Mitchell moving around.

“Welcome back, sweetheart,” he says when he notices that Sonny’s awake, leaning over him to press an unwanted kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“’m not your sweetheart,” Sonny protests. The blanket draped over his chest slips, and Sonny realizes that he’s naked. More aware now, he yanks his arms forward, finding them to be stretched out, tied to the headboard. “Let me go,” he says, fear curling in his stomach as he tugs harder. “Let me go!”

Mitchell sits back, a feral grin on his face.

Sonny feels his stomach drop. Why haven’t the others found him yet? They had the restaurant under surveillance, didn’t they?

“Beautiful,” Mitchell murmurs, running a hand down Sonny’s shaking side. The warmth of his hand burns where it touches, leaving the skin feeling colder than before. “My sister was right; you are my type.”

Sonny can’t help himself; he snorts. “I highly doubt you actually have a ‘type,’” he says derisively. “Your sister just didn’t want you to focus your attention on her.”

Mitchell’s hand smacks against the side of Sonny’s head, and he cries out more from the shock of it than any real pain.

“You need to stop talking about my sister,” Mitchell says harshly. He grabs one of Sonny’s arms, twisting it in its bindings.

“Stop!” Sonny tries. His legs are still free, but the blanket, a heavy duvet, makes it hard to kick at Mitchell. There isn’t a crack, but Sonny still screams at the pain building in his arm. Mitchell finally lets go, that same feral grin on his face.

He rips the blanket off, hoisting Sonny’s legs up so they rest on either side of his hips. Sonny chokes back a sob, thankful Mitchell is still mostly clothed. His relief is short-lived as Mitchell fumbles his pants open, tugging them down enough to free his penis.

“No,” Sonny protests, the head already pressing against his sphincter. “No, please don’t do this.”

Mitchell laughs. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you. You think begging’s going to get me to stop?” He presses harder, and Sonny sobs as more slips in and suddenly it’s not pressure, it’s pain.

“You met me yesterday, you bastard,” Sonny manages to spit.

“It was enough time to make a connection,” Mitchell insists as he starts moving back and forth. Sonny whimpers as his insides follow with the movement. It’s as if he’s being turned inside out, his soft innards exposed by the hard flesh of his rapist.

Sonny tries fighting, but the position he’s in leaves him unable to gain any real traction, and Mitchell keeps rocking into him through it all, blood finally easing his passage. Sonny gives up before he really gets started, just trying to survive.

Long minutes pass as Mitchell rapes him, sweats on him, ejaculates in him.

“You’re nothing but a whore,” Mitchell pants, thrusting in a few last times before he softens. Sonny shakes his head, whimpers as Mitchell strokes over his prostate. “Look at you, spread out,  _taking_  it. You’re not even fighting anymore. Whore.” He chuckles darkly, reaching down to press his hand over Sonny’s neck, fingers depressing his airway.

Sonny’s throat clicks as he starts bucking again, gagging on no air and too much pain.

He’s going to die here. He can feel it. Mitchell’s face is a mask of fury, the danger glaring down at Sonny.

He can’t fight. He doesn’t have the energy. He can’t move his arms, and Mitchell is still sitting on his legs.

He blacks out and fully expects to not wake up again.

~ * ~

Sonny wakes up.

He’s still tied to David Mitchell’s bed, and Mitchell isn’t anywhere near him. For one euphoric second, Sonny thinks he’s been saved, and then that second passes and David returns from wherever he’d gone after Sonny had passed out.

“Good nap?” Mitchell asks, wiping his hands on a towel that he tosses toward a corner of the room. “Ready for round two?”

With a throat that feels as if Sonny swallowed broken glass, he says, “Does round two include your death?”

Mitchell glares at him. “It’s rude to insult your boyfriend.”

“You are not my boyfriend. You are a disgusting excuse of a human who uses his wealth to get what he wants and his brute nature when that fails. You are a bully, an abuser, and a rapist. You won’t get away with it.”

“I already have,” Mitchell says. “Seven times before you.”

Sonny doesn’t know how to respond. He _knew_ Mitchell was dangerous; he just hadn’t realized it was because of practice.

Seven men are either raped, dead, or both because of David Mitchell. _Eight men_ , his brain corrects.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks in a small voice.

“Eventually,” Mitchell answers. “But first.” He begins stripping, shirt and pants removed with ease. He throws them at the towel. Sonny tenses. His hole still aches, and the bed beneath him is crusty with blood and drying semen.

He locks his legs together, ankles crossed. Mitchell clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

“It’s going to hurt worse if you don’t relax.” Off come his tight underpants, and his penis bobs, already engorged and ready to rape again.

Sonny swallows hard. He bites back any pleas; they didn’t help before anyway. Mitchell lands on the bed, straddling Sonny’s waist. He cups his face, pressing a wet kiss to his lips.

He pulls back, and Sonny sees that dangerous glint in his eyes. “Make it good,” Mitchell says. “You might extend your life.”

Sonny nods, and Mitchell kisses him again. He moves off Sonny’s legs, and he draws them up to his chest, exposing his hole. As soon as Mitchell moves to kneel at Sonny’s buttocks, he brings his legs down, kicking with as much strength as he can.

Mitchell takes the hit and topples off the bed. Sonny shakes his arms, trying to pull them free. It doesn’t work. He struggles harder and feels the give.

Mitchell should have already been on him again he thinks. Sonny pauses, straining his ears. All he did was knock him off the bed. Why hasn’t he stood up yet?

Sonny redoubles his efforts and manages to pull one wrist out of the ropes. It’s bloody and mangled but it’s free. He picks at the knot on the other wrist with uncooperative fingers until he manages to undo it.

When Sonny looks over the edge of the bed, he realizes why Mitchell never got up again.

He only fell about two and a half feet, but he landed on his neck. His wide eyes and unmoving chest speak to his quick death. Sonny hadn’t heard anything and he was right there.

In a lot of ways it’s a relief. He can focus on finding his clothes without worrying about being attacked again.

Ten minutes later, Sonny has Amaro’s borrowed suit on, Barba’s tie looped loosely around his neck.

Mitchell had removed the battery from Sonny’s phone, but he finds both on top of the fridge. The apartment is strangely empty with only a few bare basics for living and nothing else that Sonny can find.

He steps outside shocked to realize that it’s only just sunset now. It feels like it should be the middle of the night.

He shakes his head to clear it and snaps the battery back into the phone, powering it on. He shifts impatiently, sparks of pain licking at his spine, while the phone cycles through its boot screen.

He punches in Benson’s number. She answers on the second ring.

“Where are you?” she demands.

“David Mitchell’s apartment,” he replies.

“Are you safe?”

“Yes. David Mitchell is dead.”

Benson is quiet for a few seconds. Then, “Are you hurt?”

Sonny glances down at his bloodied wrists and knows she’s asking if Mitchell… “Yes,” he answers honestly.

“Can you find the address for us? It’ll be faster than tracing your call.”

“Okay.” Sonny goes back inside even though he doesn’t think he’ll find anything this time either. He leans against the door and puts his hands over his eyes. His stomach flips uncomfortably knowing that Mitchell is still lying crumpled on the bedroom carpet. What if he isn’t really dead? What if he is just faking it, waiting for Sonny to come back so he can assault him again?

If Sonny finds what Benson wants quickly, then he can get out again.

He starts with the kitchen. All he needs is a bill or a letter. Something with the address.

He finds nothing, just as he was expecting. There’s nothing pinned to the fridge, and there’s nothing thrown on the counter. Every room is as void of ownership as the previous one, and Sonny returns to the kitchen. Even the trash bins are empty.

Mitchell thoroughly cleaned to prepare for this. Sonny feels less bad about killing him now because he knows if he hadn’t, he wasn’t getting out alive.

He sinks to his haunches, head in his hands while he struggles to breathe. If he can’t find an address, he can’t tell Benson where he is, and if he leaves before he knows the address, then he can’t send someone here to take care of Mitchell’s body.

There is a sharp buzzing noise that penetrates his skull and edges his panic.

Abruptly it stops. Sonny lifts his head and glances around. The buzzing starts again, and he stares at the phone still in his hand.

He’d forgotten about that.

“Sonny,” Fin says, “how are you holding up? Found an address yet?”

“No,” Sonny tells him. “There’s nothing here. No bills, no trash. I can’t stay here.”

“I understand. Can you get outside?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, do that. Let me know the moment you step outside. Stay on the line. Don’t hang up.”

“Are you tracing the call?” Sonny asks, shutting the door behind him. “I’m outside now.”

“Outside-outside?”

“Yes. Mitchell’s apartment has a front stoop. I’m standing on it.”

“Good. Any neighbors?”

Sonny looks around. “None. But, it’s dark now.”

“Do you feel safe waiting on the stoop? We are tracing the call. We’ve almost got you.”

“Yeah, I can wait.” Sonny sits down. Pain flares and then settles as he finds a position that keeps his weight off his injury.

“Good job, Sonny,” Fin says. “I’m proud of you.”

Sonny pulls the phone back from his ear and studies it. It’s the first time someone who’s not related to him has said they’re proud of him. It… doesn’t feel as good as he’d imagined.

It feels almost like a consolation prize given to him to keep his parents happy that he doesn’t actually get to play any minutes. It’s not _his_ , he hasn’t earned it. Not yet.

He knows that the other detectives know what happened to him. Maybe not right now, but they’re all perceptive, even if Benson doesn’t tell them, they’ll all find out anyway. And Sonny doesn’t know if he can stomach any pity they might show him. Although he isn’t sure it would be any better if they didn’t change.

“Sonny?” Fin says, and he looks up. Fin is standing on the street, a couple of officers behind him. Sonny stares down at his phone. It’s off. Lost power. He looks up again. Fin hasn’t moved.

“You ready to go?”

Sonny nods, trying to stand up. His legs are numb, unable to support him, and he topples forward, he doesn’t want to fall on his head and break his neck too. Once of the officers catches him.

“Easy,” Fin says. “We got you.”

Sonny trusts him. If Fin says they’ve got him, then they definitely have him.

He lets the officer support him to the patrol car. Fin slides into the back with him.

“The trace was successful?” Sonny asks. He doesn’t think he was on the phone for the full time required to run the trace.

Fin shakes his head. “We got the maître d’ to talk. You weren’t the only man David Mitchell abducted off their premises.”

“I know,” Sonny says softly. “He said there were seven others. He killed them. he was going to kill me.”

Fin touches Sonny’s throat, a bare brush of fingers that still makes his skin crawl. “It looks like he already tried.”

“Detective,” the officer who’d helped Sonny earlier opens Fin’s door. “The scene has been secured. There is one occupant. Male, deceased.”

“Stay on it. Call CSU. As soon as Benson gets here, we’re heading to the hospital.”

“Yes sir.” He leaves the door open when he leaves.

They don’t have to wait long, maybe five minutes, before Benson pulls up to the curb. Fin gets out and then helps Sonny out too. His legs are a little better but still unsteady, and he sinks into Benson’s backseat with a grateful sigh.

“What’s going on?” Benson asks Fin.

“Cops are securing the scene. CSU is being called in to process. There’s a body in there.”

“David Mitchell’s,” Sonny adds. “He fell and broke his neck.” He doesn’t say he kicked him and that’s why he fell. “I couldn’t find an address or anything. I think he cleaned thoroughly before he took me.”

“He had a system,” Fin tells Benson as he climbs into the backseat. She gets behind the wheel and starts driving. “He’s done this before. Elisa Marroway, the maître d’ at _Moncelli’s_ admitted that she’s helped him drug and abduct at least four other men.”

“That leaves three unaccounted for,” Sonny says. “Mitchell told me before he died that he’d done this seven times before.” He frowns down at his hands. They’re shaking. He’s shaking. “I’m sorry that I made it harder to find his victims.”

“No,” Benson says soothingly, “no. You did what you had to survive. If you hadn’t, we’d be looking for your body right now.”

“We’ll get Ann to talk,” Fin says. “She knows a hell of a lot more than she’s telling us. Maybe with her brother permanently gone, she’ll be more willing to divulge that information.”

“Either way, it’s not our case anymore. We’re all too close, too personally involved.” Benson puts the car in park. They’re at Mt. Sinai. Sonny wraps the numb fingers of his right hand around the burning pain in his left wrist.

“Let’s get you looked at,” Fin says gently.

Sonny nods once. It’s almost over, he tells himself as a nurse approaches the car with a wheelchair. It’s almost done. He can rest now.

~ * ~

Ann talks for days once Bronx SVU takes her to see her dead brother’s body. She gives them lists of properties, holdings, assets that they both inherited but that Mitchell wouldn’t let her use.

The searchers find the first body a week after they start looking. They find six more in the following month. They also find an eighth grave.

Sonny shudders when Benson tells him.

He’s mostly healed from the physical wounds. His wrists are still sore, but the deep cuts have mostly closed up, just a line of scabs.

Mentally is another story. Sonny still wakes up every night imagining that Mitchell is back, trying to kill him, reminding him that the eighth grave is still empty.

But, life goes on. Sonny’s seeing a psychiatrist for his PTSD, Bernie Hawkins’s sentencing has begun proceedings, and even though he excused himself from the case, he still has to testify, and he’s taking his detective’s exam. Benson thinks he’ll make second grade easily. Sonny isn’t holding his breath.

None of his coworkers have treated him with kid gloves nor have they been dismissive or short with him.

In fact, they all kind of argued over who would get to be his partner when he is cleared for field duty in another two weeks.

Things aren’t great, Sonny reflects, sipping at a mug of decaf coffee—no caffeine according to his psychiatrist—but they’re definitely getting good.

They’re always getting better.

~ The End ~

**Author's Note:**

> As evidenced by the character list, this story takes place in Season 16. I haven’t actively watched many episodes since, and as such, any characterizations that take place after midway of Season 17 are ignored because I didn’t know about them (nor do I really care to know about them).
> 
> Un-Beta read. Edited by myself. Mistakes still exist. I will eventually go through and try to fix them. Thanks to all who read.


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